


Giving the Dog a Bone

by donatien



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bestiality, Curses, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-11
Updated: 2014-08-11
Packaged: 2018-02-12 18:03:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2119530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/donatien/pseuds/donatien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No. Just—<i>no</i>. It couldn’t be — “Sam?” Dean questions softly, knowing fully well how stupid he looks asking a blood-thirsty beast if it’s his brother.</p><p>Amazingly, the dog huffs and barks, turns its head in what Dean assumes is supposed be a nod, and flattens its ears moodily.</p><p><i>Shit</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Giving the Dog a Bone

Where his little brother once stood now stands a monster of a dog: well passed Dean’s hip from what he can see, with a pound of fur and dark jowls. It stares at Dean with big, brown eyes that almost looked shocked in the lighting.

“Shit,” Dean says, the hair on the back of his neck rising. “ _Shitshitshit_.”

The urge to bolt hit Dean like a freight train and he’s scrambling back before he even realizes he’s doing it. It only takes a glimpse of the dog— _fuck_ , maybe it’s actually a horse?—rearing back to pounce after him for Dean to kick fully into gear, legs pumping with the kind of reckless abandon that comes with primal fear.

Dean hates dogs. He really fucking hates dogs.

And maybe the thing really is a horse, because it doesn’t take long before he feels a strong tug at the bottom of his jeans and, god, it’s a more terrifying feeling than the witch’s wand pointing straight at him. Something like a scream gets caught in his throat as he’s pulled down, face first, into a dewy patch of grass. Annoyance hits first, then confusion, then the fear upon realizing that, yeah, that’s goddamn _Cujo_ nipping at his leg.

He flails and flips over, kicks one foot out blindly to shake it off and keep it away (can practically hear Sam’s pissy voice telling him not to kick dogs, _They don’t know any better, Dean_ ) and—wow, that dog does a really good impression of Sam’s pissy face. Exceptionally good.

Where is Sam?

No. Just— _no_. It couldn’t be — “Sam?” Dean questions softly, knowing fully well how stupid he looks asking a blood-thirsty beast if it’s his brother.

Amazingly, the dog huffs and barks, turns its head in what Dean assumes is supposed be a nod, and flattens its ears moodily.

 _Shit_.

**____________________**

Turns out before they managed to ice the bitch, she had one ‘fuck you’ left in store for them.

From what Dean can piece together (and from what Sam can _Bark once for yes, bark twice for no_ to), while he’d been salting and burning the witch’s remains, she’d gotten out of her hold and dived for him while his back was turned. Realizing what she was going to do, Sam dived in the way of her blast and, boom, canine’d. 

The recovery time to come to terms with his brother being a dog ( _“What kind of dog are you exactly?” Dean had asked. Sam looked as annoyed as a dog could possible get and barked something Dean had no way of understanding_ ) is unsurprisingly short, given the nature of their work. He tries to berate Sam on his reckless behavior, even throws in a few “Bad dog!”s just novelty’s sake, but Sam doesn’t look appropriately subdued, only more annoyed.

“Okay, okay, I get it,” Dean raises his hands in mock surrender. Sam’s ears flatten again. “Let’s work on getting you back to yourself, Pluto.”

He decides to hit the library first for some solo research, figuring Sam wouldn’t want any of their contacts to know about this particular mishap unless absolutely necessary. He grumbles the whole way to reminder Sam this isn’t exactly his wheelhouse, and curses him out when Sam intentionally weaves through his legs to trip him. 

Before he even opens his mouth to ask, Sam trots off to a back section with clear intent. When he realizes Dean isn’t following, he turns and barks his irritation and trots off again, slower this time. It’s so absurd, his little brother barking at him _because he’s a dog_ that he can’t help but crack a grin as he follows.

The OCD croonies of the Men of Letters were regular boy scouts, Dean admires. The row of shelves Sam leads him to have a neat little placard signifying _Transformations_. Sam raises up on his haunches and places a paw against a placard and barks once. Dean whistles low in appreciation. Sam’s ears perks up.

“All right, so, we just gotta find which one of these books deal with idiot little brothers turned into mastodons. Easy.”

**____________________**

It’s not easy.

Despite looking meticulously organized, the books don’t go in alphabetical order and Dean can’t decipher what order they could possibly be in to find the right one. Every book he picks is a dud, same as every one Sam brings him dripping with drool. 

They spend a few days combining through the transformation selection before Dean decides they should call someone. When he first brings it up, exhausted and drained and on-edge from reading dusty books in too small print, Sam — who had seemed as jaded and exhausted as he felt, just in dog form — had started barking up a storm. It takes almost a full hour of soft-voiced monologuing for Sam to sulkily comply, but he gives Dean the dog-equivalent of the silent treatment for the rest of the day.

Reluctantly, he calls Garth first. It’s really the safest bet, in terms of semi-competence and confidentiality. He sounds eager for the assignment anyway, which makes Dean smile despite himself.

“So, an ol’ transformation curse, huh?” Garth asks in a leisurely tone. 

Dean rolls his eyes. “Yeah, he’s fucking Cujo over here. Can you find something to help us out?”

Garth hums contemplatively on the other line. Dean tries to express his exasperation to Sam, but his brother has pointedly turned his back to him. “Yeah, I can find something. I’ll get to work and hit you guys back when I’ve found the solution.”

Dean’s relief is almost embarrassing. “Thanks, man.”

“No problem,” Garth says. “Tell Sam _arf! arf!_ for me.”

Dean coughs on a surprise laugh. “Shit, you fluent in Doglish now?”

“Yeah.” Garth says, and it’s so serious Dean has to hang up right then and there.

Sighing, he leans back in his chair and turns his head to where Sam is still lying with his back to him. Dean can tell his ears are perked though, so he was definitely listening in. “Garth’s on the case. I’m not sure if that’s a good thing, but it’s something.”

Sam flicks his tail.

**____________________**

It takes a week of Sam being a dog for Dean to stop finding it funny.

It’s another week of not having any communication with Sam for it to get tiresome.

Four days after that, it’s just plain fucking sad.

He’s lying in bed with another ancient-looking book on transformation hexes with Sam pressed against him, tail flicking absently over his bare calves, nose against his side. It’s not a position Dean would have found himself in if Sam was in his normal human body, and the discrepancy only makes his chest clench even more.

“I’m sorry, Sam,” is out before he even thinks to say it. Sam lifts his head to stare at him, ears raised and tail flicking in question (and has it really been long enough for Dean to understand tail-communication?). “I swear I thought we’d have a cure by now.”

Sam makes a sound that Dean interprets as _It’s not your fault, Dean_ because Sam is always trying to reassure him when he fucks up. He reaches out and scratches Sam’s head, right behind his ear like he’s come to know Sam likes. Kissing him, hugging him and being held back, those are things Dean hasn’t had since this happened. 

When Sam wags his tail, Dean realizes he hasn’t seen Sam smile since it happened, too.

He falls back against the bed and sighs deeply. He’s been doing that a lot lately.

A warm, wet tongue presses against the side of his face and Dean almost jumps clear out of his own skin. He shoots upright and splutters, hands wiping furiously at the side of his face. Beside him, Sam bolts up too, ears high, tail wagging, and mouth panting wide. He’s _laughing_ , Dean realizes.

“You shit,” Dean says, but it comes out more affectionately than he’d intended. “You little shit.” 

Still panting, Sam tilts his head in reminisce of Cas before bounding up on Dean. His large paws connect with Dean’s shoulders and he tumbles back gracelessly. He barely misses clocking his head against the headboard when Sam attacks him with slobbery tongue again. Sam’s tongue is thick and wet and running over his mouth and nose, reminding Dean almost of the feeling of drowning. Dean almost yelps but refrains so as to not get a gallon of dog drool in his mouth, and works on pushing Sam’s massive weight off himself and expressing his annoyance in movement rather than sound. 

Somewhere in all the chaos, Sam abruptly stops and Dean takes advantage of the momentary ceasefire to wipe the worst of the drool off on his comforter. He goes to try the _Bad dog!_ approach and threaten to get Sam neutered when he realizes the cause.

He’s hard.

Not out of his mind, rock solid hard. He hadn’t even noticed it all the excitement, but... but that’s definitely what’s happening right now, and Sam knows it because there’s something pressing against his hard-on, and it isn’t a tail.

Blinking up at Sam, hands still raised mid-wipe, Dean clears his throat. “Oh.”

Right now would be the time in which Sam would say _Yeah, oh_ or _No shit_ , but Sam’s not saying anything (of course), and he’s not giving any clues as to what he’s thinking with his ears or tail like Dean has come to look for.

He’s not moving either, which is more concerning. Clearing his throat again, Dean pushes against Sam’s chest and chuckles nervously. “All right, down boy.”

Sam doesn’t move though, but Dean must have kicked him into gear somehow because his tail starts wagging slowly. It’s not happiness, and it’s not aggression, though it mimics the latter closely. 

Lifting up on his elbows is difficult with half of Sam’s ginormous body still draped across his chest, but it makes Dean feel less scrutinized Sam’s round, chocolate eyes. “Look, I haven’t gotten laid since you went all Beethoven on me, okay? It’s nothing, seriously. Let’s — let’s just go look for more of the books. I don’t know when Garth we’ll get back to us, and there’s bound to be something we missed.”

Dean is fully aware he sounds whiny and desperate, but he’s stressed and tired and half hard from rolling around with his dog-brother _who still won’t get off_.

He tries to lift up more, hoping to jostle Sam off at least halfway so he can roll him off and dive for the door and pretend none of this ever happened. Before he can, Sam positions himself up so Dean’s knocked back down. It’s disorienting, but when Dean comes back to himself he splutters an indignant “ _Hey_ —”

And then Sam’s licking him again, which wouldn’t be so bad if it wasn’t on his neck and intentionally, sensually slow.

The first thought in Dean’s head after his mind short-circuits and kickstarts again is _Oh_ , and then _Oh, no_.

“Hey,” Dean murmurs, light but shaky. “Come on, I get it. Get up now, okay? We don’t have to do research, we can — let’s see how Garth’s coming along, yeah? You know that guy can get caught up in something and not bathe or eat anything except Doritos for weeks.”

Sam raises his head to stare down at Dean, and for one sweet, hopeful moment Dean thinks he’s going to acquiesce and stop doing whatever the hell he thinks he’s doing. Instead, he pins Dean with a look that has him freezing immediately and running hot, then cold. 

For all Dean’s dog communication skills are still shaky, for all the thick _The Secret Language of Dogs_ book has been sitting on their table as a makeshift coaster after Dean broke down and decided it’d be good to have, none of what he knows about how dogs are supposed to tell you what they want has prepared him for the look currently on Sam’s large, furry face. 

Because there’s no other way to interpret that look other than _I’m turned on_ and _I want to fuck you_.

Hilariously (in a “my dog-brother wants to fuck me” sort of way), it’s almost eerily similar to Sam’s normal turned-on look, except in dog form. Or maybe Dean has truly snapped under all the pressure at this point, because that’s fucking crazy. No, this whole thing is fucking crazy.

Miraculously, Dean isn’t moving away, and as crazy as it’s been for the past few weeks, Dean isn’t seriously considering fucking his brother who’s a _dog_.

Except Dean ends up on his knees, naked as the day he was born, chest to the bed with his finger-stretched hole presented like a tenderloin for his brother. Who’s a dog.

 _Fuck_.

He can feel Sam nosing behind his balls and across his ass, soft fur brushing against his cheeks and sending shivers down his spine. The cold press of his nose against his balls makes his teeth clench and his cock twitch.

Just when it feels like the anticipation is going to kill him, a warm, wet tongue licks a long swipe across his balls and a startled _Oh_ escapes him.

Another flick of tongue is pressed against Dean’s taint, so close to where he aches for most. Briefly, he worries about Sam completely licking away the lube Dean used to open himself up, but Sam unintentionally erases every thought from Dean’s mind when he presses in deeper, harder. Mindlessly, Dean presses back into Sam’s tongue, meets with a cold nose right above his cracker.

“Come on,” he whispers, already sounding fucked out. 

It doesn’t take long for Sam to get the memo. The tongue comes back with purpose and lathes his taint again, then lower to his balls and some of his cock. Dean whimpers pathetically and widens his stance, makes himself more available for Sam’s long, searching tongue. 

Then Sam’s tongue is gone and warm fur is pressed against the length of Dean’s backside. Dean’s starts, knows how this part goes, and holds himself rigid, waiting with anxious breath.  
Sam’s on him, positioned to the best of what Dean can infer in the right way (but it’s just a guess; even if Dean could turn around and see what his brother was doing, he isn’t sure he could handle it). The nails of Sam’s paws scratch at Dean’s side as he tries to gather purchase, and the pointed end of his cock jabs searching at the back of his thighs and ass. Dean’s breath gets caught in his throat as he waits, thinks _Fuck, this is happening. This is really happening_ and nearly loses his mind in the time it takes Sam to actually drive it home. But instinct must count for something, and soon enough Dean can feel Sam sliding into him with a quick, stabbing thrust..

It should be gross — it _is_ gross — and despite the fact he’s trying so hard to, Dean can’t shake the fact that there was a _dog_ tongue slurping at his ass and balls, longer and wetter than any human’s could get, and now there’s a _dog_ cock fucking into his ass. That’s _fur_ brushing against his ass and the backs of his thighs and _claws_ scratching around his middle.

A _dog_ : Dean is getting fucked by a dog. 

And there’s no way Dean could pretend otherwise even without the fur and claws, because Sam fucks into him like a dog — rough, short, and dominating, like Dean is some bitch in heat he’s trying to breed and _oh, fuck_. 

“God,” Dean groans hoarsely, the word punched out of him on a thrust. Sam makes a gruff noise, half-bark half-whine, and leaves scratches on Dean’s outer thigh when he lifts a hind leg to get better purchase.

Dean’s cock is swinging between his legs as Sam fucks him, and he’s aching to be touched, but the force of Sam’s thrusts would send him tumbling face first into the comforter. It’s like Sam’s locked him in, using him as a warm hole to fuck and nothing else, not caring if Dean gets off or not as long as Sam does. The thought shouldn’t have Dean’s already neglected cock twitching and dripping, but this whole thing is fucked up and Dean’s already smack dab in the middle of it so it’s really hard to give a shit right now.

Dean isn’t sure how long he lies there, poised like a bitch taking it, but just when he’s sure he physically can’t take not having release any longer — who knew dogs had this kind of stamina? — Sam stills mid-thrust. Still dazed, Dean looks over his shoulder for the first time and _Christ, fuck, this so fucked up —_

He feels Sam come inside him before he realizes that’s what’s happening, and the sound that comes out of his throat can only be described a pathetic whimper. Clumsily, he takes advantage of the letup to ease down to his elbow and grab his cock in a sweat-slick hand. Even with his elbow pressed to the bed for support, it’s difficult to balance all of Sam’s weight against his back and jack off, but he’s so wired and hungry for it he barely feels the ache in his arms.

He comes on a cry with Sam still stuffing him full of come. It hits him like a shot to the face and he goes down, tumbling fully onto the bed and just barely managing to keep his face out of the comforter. The sudden movement jostles Sam a little and Dean grunts in discomfort, but Sam stays securely nestled in his ass. 

The process of coming to is regrettably short, and with it is the full realization of what’s just happened. The panic comes back slow but building and Dean is already thinking of ways to rationalize this away: _We’re both just under a lot of stress, this is probably part of the curse, we’ve both lost our fucking minds_. 

Sam makes a soft noise above him and Dean realizes with a none-too-small amount of disbelief that he’s sleeping.

 _Fuck_.

**____________________**

The actual fucking cure is eye of newt.

About an hour after The Incident (which Dean has taken to calling it when he has to address it all, because _That Time I Got Fucked by My Little Brother in Dog Form_ is too long) they get a call from a Red Bull-powered Garth talking too fast and too high. It takes another half hour to get a coherent list of ingredients, but once Dean has checked and re-checked for accuracy he’s out of his seat like it’s on fire.

Okay, so eye of newt isn’t the only ingredient, and toe of frog isn’t on the list, but it’s still cliche enough to make Dean laugh to Sam about it while making the cure. Or maybe it’s just the relief that the ending to this nightmare is finally on the horizon.

The stuff smells something awful, but Sam wolfs it down like it’s Sunday dinner in no time. The change is immediate — glowing form, sparkling air, unearthly hum, the works — and within a few seconds the monster on four paws is replaced with his equally hairy, bipedal little brother. 

Sam scrambles to his feet, sways a bit like he’s getting used to feeling again, and pins Dean with the biggest grin of his life. “ _Dean_.”

It’s the best sound Dean’s ever heard.

It’s strange how not-strange things are after Doggate. After the initial Oh God, You’re Back necessities — hugging, near-hysterical laughing, and copious amounts of kissing (oh, how Dean missed kissing) — Sam had them another case in Wichita and they were on to the next one.

Just when Dean’s not sure if the lack of sex for two weeks after curing Sam has anything to do with The Incident or if it’s just their busy schedule, but when Sam corners after his shower and kisses him like the world itself is ending, Dean doesn’t really care.

It’s frantic and uncoordinated and more than a little awkward. Sam’s bare chest and shoulders are still slick from his shower so it’s difficult for Dean to grip him and lift himself up enough to grind against Sam’s front. It’s a flurry of bumbling feet and hands and Dean isn’t sure if they’re pushing each other towards his room or Sam’s, but it’s been so fucking long he’s not even complaining, just pushing back with equal force.

Eventually they make it to a room — Dean’s pretty sure it’s his, but he’s too focused on the way Sam’s muscles pull taunt as he skims his hands over his toned skin. They fuck quick and frantic and bruising, so hard Dean knows he won’t have to wait until morning to be sore. He’s got the imprint of Sam’s fingers on his thighs and hips, the press of his lips semi-permanent against his neck, and a warmth that clings between their bodies that feels like coming home.

After, sleepy and sated and wrapped in Sam’s arms, Dean’s about to drift asleep when Sam jostles him slightly.

He hums in question but doesn’t open his eyes. He can practically feel the anxiety radiating off Sam, and he already knows what he’s going to talk about. “About — about what happened.”

Dean’s brain sends off a red alert and he snap his eyes open to stare at Sam. “Hey, no, we don’t have to —”

“But I think we _should_ talk about it.” Sam cuts in irritably.

Dean groans exaggeratedly, causing Sam’s slowly forming frown to deepen. “You fucked me as a dog. I got fucked by a dog — you. I’ve had a dog’s cock in my ass. I think we’ve covered all the basis here, so can we please sleep?”

Saying it out loud is almost as jarring as actually doing it, but Dean keeps his face steely. Sam blinks at him in shock, then his face contorts into something unreadable. 

“... I’m just saying, it doesn’t have to mean anything —”

“Then why do we have to talk about it at all? Can you just stop being a bitch?” Dean cuts in loudly, voice higher than intended.

Sam looks taken aback for a split second before he looks angry. “Jerk.”

Despite the hostile tone the conversation has taken, Dean actually relaxes at hearing it. It’s familiar territory. “ _Bitch_.”

Sam’s face smoothes out until he’s smiling slightly. He leans into Dean’s space and presses a slow, chaste kiss to his lips. When he pulls back, Dean tries to chase him to catch their lips together again, but Sam just smiles.

WIth a humorous tilt to his voice, Sam leans in close and whispers, “Bitch.”


End file.
